Bleed
by s1ncer1ty
Summary: After Wu Fei's most recent tryst with Treize turns bloody, Duo intervenes to help stitch Wu Fei back together again. 13x5, 2x5/5x2.


"Bleed"  
by s1ncer1ty

---  
  
Pairings: 13x5, 2+5/5+2  
Warnings: Angst, lime, not so pleasant language; discussed but non-graphic NCS  
Notes: While I really do like Treize as an individual character, I am absolutely _not _a 13x5 fan (sorry 13x5 fangirls). However, it's a necessary plot development. Also, although Treize only appears as a background character, he's fairly OOC, so I hope fellow Treize-fans won't be overly offended.

---

For the third night that week, Chang Wu Fei slipped surreptitiously back into the pilots' hangar, gliding the oversized green and white frame of his Gundam to its allocated docking bay. With only a gentle hiss of hydraulics breaking the stillness of the hangar, the Chinese pilot dropped nearly forty feet to the ground, allowing the limited gravity of space mitigate the freefall. The tendrils of thin black hair escaping from the normally immaculate ponytail was the first sign that hinted to the boy's activities of the evening -- the second being a garish line of red from a freely bleeding cut across his cheek. Any other physical signs of his undertakings were hidden to the naked eye beneath the traditional white robe, buttoned, as always, to the neck, and flowing white pants. Had anyone been able to see the marks beneath -- and indeed, Wu Fei's body was littered with love bites, scratches, traces of ejaculate -- it might have served as telling evidence that the Chinese pilot might well be a traitor in their midst.

The other pilots seemed to be under the impression that Treize Khushrenada had stolen Wu Fei's heart, when in fact that couldn't be farthest from the truth. The aristocrat might have stolen the Chinese boy's innocence, as well as his virginity, but Wu Fei's heart belonged entirely to himself. The surreptitious nights spent in the embrace of the physically stronger man consisted of nothing more than contorted positions and a passive embrace as Wu Fei focused upon the ceiling and let his mind drift in a light meditative trance. Yet he never allowed himself to fall into the complete, deep stasis he had managed in the Oz holding cell with Duo Maxwell, lest he alert Khushrenada to the fact that he was less than focused upon the nonconsensual violation of his soul. The sessions -- deemed 'lovemaking' by Khushrenada and 'just sex' by Wu Fei -- left the Chinese pilot bruised and aching for several days afterwards, for Treize was far from the aristocrat he claimed to be when naked and exposed to the much younger boy.

Wu Fei's last encounter with Treize, however, had been different. As the aristocratic, older man had stripped the Chinese boy of the traditional white robe, then the black tank top beneath, Wu Fei had dared to suggest that he be permitted to be in control -- perhaps then, he could rally the strength to enjoy the act deemed almost sacred by so many, including Khushrenada himself. At the boy's inquiry, however, Treize slapped the boy with a smart backhand to the cheek. And after a particularly painful round of rough violation -- during which Wu Fei could not even bring himself to any semblance of a trance -- Khushrenada picked a ceremonial foil off the wall and, with a flick of the wrist, slashed a deep territorial gash across the boy's opposite cheek. It marked the Chinese youth as taken, marked him as an eternal subordinate, marked him under his control.

As was often the case when Wu Fei returned from his midnight rendezvous to the hangar, Duo was awake and performing standard upkeep repairs to his Gundam, working off a copious amount of the thick, overly sweetened concoction he deemed coffee. Most nights when he heard the American audibly tinkering with some mechanical component of his Gundam, or 'sneaking' onto Heero's laptop to play another video game, Wu Fei would join the other boy before retiring to bed. While Duo's rendering of coffee was almost intolerably sweet and exceptionally strong, the boy's company was welcomed. Duo would often ramble unstoppably about self-focused subjects that Wu Fei had trouble remembering in later recollections; however, he kept the Chinese boy from dwelling upon the previous hours of torture at the salacious hand of the enemy. Yet best of all, Duo did not press Wu Fei with any questions whatsoever about where he'd been, what he'd been doing... _who_ he'd been doing.

Tonight, however, Wu Fei wanted nothing to do with the American. While a grease-covered Duo slipped out from behind the Deathscythe's leg panel and called out an exuberant greeting, Wu Fei stalked immediately to the hangar's rest room and manually slammed the door heavily in its frame. Khushrenada had given him a delicate, white handkerchief to keep the Chinese boy from bleeding upon his plush carpeting, and the scented cloth was quickly soaked through. Wu Fei turned the sink's tap as hot as he could stand it, stopped the drain, and let the sodden handkerchief fall into the water. Immediately, the sink stained an alarmingly deep shade of pink, and Wu Fei wrung the cloth out before attempting to clean the wound he'd gained at Khushrenada's hand. The slice was clean, but deep, and continued to drip crimson down his paled cheek no matter how valiantly he attempted to wipe it away. Even the shoulder of the pristine Chinese robe was marred by a spreading pool of blood. With a snarl of distaste at his own weakness, Wu Fei unbuttoned the robe and slid his arms out from the sleeves, letting it drape across his shoulders. He clutched the edge of the sink, lowered his head when he could no longer bear to gaze at his own reflection in the mirror above, and bled.

_"Oi!_ Open up, would you 'Fei?"

How long had Duo been standing outside the door while Wu Fei attempted to gather the pieces of himself together once again? Steeling his voice to a forced hardness, he uttered, sounding perhaps a little too icy for his own comfort, "What do you want, Maxwell?"

"I gotta take a piss. And I doubt anyone would want me scuffing my dirty shoes across the floor to get to the upstairs toilet. In fact, I'm sure Heero would just point his gun in my face and mutter, 'Omay-oh-koroose,' or whatever it is he says when he's threatening to kill someone."

Wu Fei closed his eyes against the American's high-strung prattle, and hit the drain on the sink, allowing the scarlet water to spiral through the pipes. Again pressing the blood-soaked handkerchief to his face, he tapped the index finger of his opposite hand upon the panel, and the door slid open automatically to reveal a smirking Duo leaning heavily against the frame. 

The cheeky grin, however, fell immediately from the American's grease-smudged face as he turned his eyes first to Wu Fei, then to the remnants of blood still clinging to the edge and the rim of the sink. "Holy Jesus, 'Fei," he breathed, large violet eyes widening at the sight, color draining from his cheeks. "Did you slaughter a pig in here?"

With only an icy glare given in response, the Chinese boy attempted to brush wordlessly past Duo. However, with almost uncharacteristic speed, the American's grimy hand shot out to grab Wu Fei's upper arm to restrain him. Wu Fei did not -- _could not_ -- fight back against the other boy, and he permitted Duo to pull aside the hand holding the handkerchief to his cheek so he could inspect the wound. Yet, in a sharp contrast to Khushrenada's own physical manipulation, Duo had a very gentle and genuinely concerned touch, even as he ran his first two fingers beneath the gash to collect the blood that threatened to spill down Wu Fei's cheek. Then, pressing his thumb to Wu Fei's chin, he urged the boy to meet his oversized, overly concerned violet eyes positioned above a wry smile.

"That's going to leave a wicked scar, 'Fei," Duo stated, his voice an odd mix of strained lightness and apprehension. "I must say, I'm almost jealous. You're going to need stitches, though," he added, more seriously.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Wu Fei replied softly, and gently pulled his hand from Duo's grasp so he could replace the cloth to his bleeding cheek.

Duo's eyes narrowed slightly, and he uttered, "Don't lie to me, Wu Fei. You know I can't stand that." Just as quickly, the ever-changing kaleidoscope of the American's emotions shifted to quiet acceptance. "Come on. Heero's asleep, but he'll wake up for this. He's the only one I'd trust to stitch you up, Frankenstein. And if you're worried about waking him up, I'll stand in front of you to take the full blast of his glare-gun." 

Wu Fei could barely follow the strange colloquialisms, but he knew the American was right -- his cheek would need stitches, and Heero was the only one among the pilots with a steady enough hand to do it. "I thought you needed to piss," he returned sourly, masking the array of fear and despair that continued to churn within him following his evening at the mercy of Khushrenada.

"Oh. Yeah, I'll have to do that eventually, won't I?" Duo pushed a grin to his lips and winked at the Chinese boy. "Might as well do it upstairs, since I'll be griming up the floor anyway. Will you be okay to get upstairs? Not going to pass out from loss of blood, are you?"

"I made it here, didn't I?" Wu Fei returned with a hard glare settling in his onyx eyes.

Duo countered with a stare of his own, remarking blandly, "You look like you lost an awful lot of blood, 'Fei."

Taking a deep breath, expelled heavily through his nose, Wu Fei dipped his chin to his chest and softly affirmed, "I will be okay, Maxwell."

The affirmation seemed to be enough for Duo, as the American grinned reassuringly and, with a dirty hand, pushed his tangled bangs from his eyes. He nodded towards the lift that connected with the second floor and stepped away from the bathroom's entrance. "Let me tell you, 'Fei, I think I found a way to boost the 'Scythe's rocket output without sacrificing a great deal of fuel."

And without a word, Wu Fei followed in the American's footsteps, blissfully thankful for the distracting chatter as Duo detailed each and every step taken in his Gundam's repair. The stream of conversation did not stop until they reached the upstairs floor, when Duo fell suddenly silent.

---

True to the American's words, Heero Yuy _glared_ at the two boys that had dared to invade his private quarters and disrupt his sleep in the middle of the night. The Japanese boy had awakened the very second his door whispered open -- the combination to the lock having been 'obtained' by Duo no matter how many times Heero tried to encrypt it -- and Wu Fei learned the reasoning behind Duo's sudden, uncharacteristic silence. The click of a pistol's trigger being cocked was audible across the still room, and the American slowly raised his hands to the back of his head.

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," Duo crooned, with only the slightest quaver to his voice. "No one's going to hurt you here. Not _now_ anyway," he added with a smirk.

Heero's arm, the pistol silhouetted in the darkness, dropped to his lap, although he did not relax his grip on the gun. "Explain yourselves," he demanded succinctly.

"I think we could use a little light in here, don't you?" Duo asked, carefully dropping one arm from its position behind his head to search the wall for the switch. Wu Fei, standing behind the American, fluttered his eyes shut at the sudden flood of light -- kept at an intensely bright level as a general rule. Heero didn't even flinch. "There, that's better. As you can see, our buddy Wu Fei here seems to be bleeding profusely from the face. And, as I'm too dirty to be of much assistance, not even _mentioning_ the fact that the sight of blood_ squicks_ me out, we could use your expertise. Your mission, should you choose to accept it --"

"Duo. Stop," interrupted Heero, throwing aside his bedcovers and starting to his feet with the sudden grace only coming from a soldier's training. Hard blue eyes, peeking out from a ragged fringe of bangs, fixed upon Wu Fei, their expression as always unreadable. "I have no anaesthetic."

"That doesn't bother me," replied Wu Fei, keeping his voice level even if he couldn't bring himself to meet Heero's eyes.

"Well, that would bother _me,"_ Duo piped in quickly, the bridge of his nose wrinkling in disgust.

Before Duo could go any further, Heero again interrupted the American, stopping him with the tone of his voice alone. "No one asked you, Duo. Wu Fei," he added, enunciating the Chinese boy's name with a whispery, Japanese-accented inflection, "sit at the chair beside my desk. Don't bleed on the floor."

Duo snorted as he stifled a burst of laughter, but Wu Fei could find no amusement in Heero's attempt to joke. Besides, it would likely hurt his cheek too much to smile, even if he'd been inclined to do so. Brushing past the American, Wu Fei pulled up the severe folding chair at Heero's desk and sat cross-legged upon it, his head lowering slightly as he closed his eyes. The prospect of stitches without anaesthetic gave the Chinese boy the impetus to fall into meditation, which had become sporadic and stifled since he'd begun visiting Khushrenada on the sly. 

After several minutes -- during which time Duo leaned pensively against Heero's doorframe watching the deeply breathing Chinese youth and Heero gathered together a needle, surgical thread, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol from his supplies -- the Japanese boy snapped his fingers three times beside Wu Fei's ear. Satisfied that the other pilot was deeply enough entrenched in his meditative trance, Heero knelt beside him, removed the damp, bloody handkerchief from his hand, and commenced stitching the loose flap of skin closed.

Duo tried not to appear too sick as he watched Heero work with cold precision -- not only was the Japanese boy's meticulous work disconcerting, Duo had always been unnerved by the way Wu Fei could drown out the world, to the point of almost ceasing breathing completely, within meditation. Of course, Duo would rather not have to deal with the Chinese pilot under such circumstances if he'd been awake...

"So, Heero," the American eventually remarked, attempting to the best of his ability to keep his tone casual, "do you think he's betrayed us already, or what?"

"I don't think he's betrayed us," Heero returned, gently wiping away a couple beads of blood from Wu Fei's cheek.

"You can't be sure, though, can you? You know as well as I do who he's been seeing," Duo's arms crossed over his chest, a grousing expression camping out on his face.

The Japanese boy shook his head, his disarray of black bangs shaking over his eyes. "No, I can't be sure, just as I can't be completely sure you haven't betrayed us either."

Rolling his expressive, violet eyes, Duo snorted. "Why would_ I _have any reason to betray us, huh?_ I'm_ not the one sneaking out each night to see _him."_

"Whatever Wu Fei is doing is personal," remarked Heero softly as he tied off a length of the surgical thread. "He has his own way of dealing with matters."

"Hrmph. It's a real shitty way of dealing with things, if you ask me."

"Hn," was the Japanese boy's only response. 

For a time, it was the only sentiment hanging between the three boys, and Heero took that opportunity to finish stitching off Wu Fei's wound in silence. Tipping the bottle of alcohol against a fresh rag, he carefully cleaned away the remaining blood that had crusted to the Chinese pilot's cheek, very gingerly working around the fresh stitches. When he was satisfied with his handiwork, he allowed Wu Fei's chin to tilt down against his chest once more, and Heero stood. Duo, he noticed, continued to stare at the near-unconscious Chinese boy, that wrinkle of concern creasing his brow, marring the otherwise cheerful face.

"Duo," Heero stated in a quiet voice, "he'll come around, provided he finds the right guidance."

The American's violet eyes snapped up, meeting Heero's with sudden uncertainty. "Do you mean --"

The Japanese boy nodded once, then turned to where Wu Fei sat, still peacefully meditating upon the hard folding chair. Deliberately, Heero slapped the back of his hand against the Chinese boy's opposite cheek, just hard enough to startle. "Wu Fei. Wake up."

After several moments, and a second slap from Heero, Wu Fei's obsidian eyes opened, the pupils contracting as he dragged himself from the depths of a solid -- if not completely deep -- meditation. A questioning noise escaped the back of his throat as he stared blankly at Heero.

"I'm finished," Heero stated dryly, fixing the Chinese pilot with a hard, direct stare. "Try not to smile too much. You'll pop the stitches."

Still reacclimating himself to the brightly lit surroundings and the dull, throbbing ache in his cheek, Wu Fei simply gave a lethargic nod. Duo, on the other hand, seemed to find something deliciously funny in the Japanese boy's statement and burst into tense laughter.

"You are absolutely too much sometimes, Heero," the American boy chuckled. "A laugh a minute --"

"And going back to bed now, Duo. Goodbye."

Slowly, Wu Fei shifted his weight to his feet, rising from the chair with a faint tremble in his legs. If either Heero or Duo had managed to notice the unease in his step, neither boy let on. "Heero," he stated, bowing his vaguely spinning head to the Japanese pilot. "I am grateful for your assistance."

Heero said nothing in response, but instead gave a sharply formal bow to the other boy.

"Yeah, thanks buddy," Duo added, talking in a seemingly unending stream of chatter even has he backed out of the Japanese pilots quarters. "'Fei and I were just on our way out. Won't hold you up here any longer. We were going downstairs to the kitchen for some tea, weren't we, 'Fei?"

But Heero merely glared at the two retreating boys, the icy -- disconcertingly un-Asian -- blue eyes glittering with a momentary hint of compassion, before the door to his quarters slid shut and locked with a loud beep.

---

Unlike the thick jet fuel-like substance Duo called coffee, the American's tea was actually palatable. In fact, Wu Fei found he could actually enjoy the taste of the amber-shaded English tea, particularly since Duo did not take it upon himself to add as much cream and sugar as humanly possible, like he did to his coffee. The two boys sat silently across from each at the small, round table within the hangar's kitchen, for a time only quietly sipping from twin mugs of tea. Wu Fei kept his eyes firmly affixed to his tea, or to the tabletop, but Duo studied the Chinese boy with the assessing stare that came from years of street-life, eternally searching body language for hints of a motive. 

Finally, Duo remarked, his words coming out in a rapid jumble, "Why do you do it, Wu Fei? It's really none of my business, but I just have to know." If he couldn't ask now, he might never gather the courage to do so again -- and now, he had Wu Fei in the perfect position to drag the admission out of him.

A faint frown creasing the Chinese boy's brow, Wu Fei asked, "Why do I do what?" 

"Go to him," remarked Duo, cutting off the other pilot as he opened his mouth to protest. "Don't tell me that you don't, because I know you do. I know that every time you sneak out, you go to him, and God only knows_ why,_ because I certainly _don't!"_

"It's not something I expect you to understand, Maxwell," Wu Fei returned, a hard, defensive edge to his voice. His fingers tightened around the mug of tea, knuckles fading to white.

"Well, why don't you try explaining it to me, then?" Duo remarked sarcastically, his voice steadily rising in pitch. "Because I can't for the life of me figure out why someone as single-minded, stubborn, and honor-bound as you would ever go to have a romantic rendezvous with the very entity we're fighting against!"

"It isn't romantic!" Wu Fei suddenly exclaimed, slamming down the mug so the amber-colored tea sloshed over the rim onto the table. "It's his right to demand that I go to him, and his right to do with me what he must."

His mouth working noiselessly, Duo's eyes widened in shock at the revelation. Finally, after several seconds of being unable to find his voice, he managed to sputter out, "You ... you don't truly _believe_ that, do you?"

"He should have killed me when he had the opportunity," Wu Fei stated, returning, like a dragon curling back within its den, to a state of calm once again. "No, he'd rather keep me alive, dishonored, constantly holding the life he needs to take from me over my head."

"You mean to tell me you go to him because you're seeking death?" asked the American in a bewildered, whispered voice. 

Without a word, Wu Fei gave a single nod, his eyes turning to focus unblinkingly upon his mug of tea, held in a lightly shaking hand.

"Oh, Wu Fei..." Duo breathed, unable to contain, for the moment, the sadness the Chinese boy's revelation illicited. "You don't deserve it. Not now, not when we're so close to _winning."_

"Don't give me your pity, Maxwell," Wu Fei murmured from behind the rim of his mug. 

Duo gave a light snort and shook his head, remarking with a wicked smirk, "I don't pity you, Wu Fei. That's the farthest thing from the truth. It does make me sad, though, to see someone as admirable as you throwing his life away for someone who does nothing but use you. He'll never _kill_ you, and you know it. He'll never love you, either."

"No, he never will, and that is something I can live with," the Chinese youth stated, fingertips grazing the freshly stitched, still-throbbing gash upon his cheek. "But he has made certain that no one else has the opportunity to do so in the future."

"What are you talking about?" Duo responded wryly, his eyebrows raising in curiosity.

"I am damaged goods, Maxwell," stated Wu Fei with an easy shrug, hiding his face behind the mug of tea as he took a sip. 

The American's expressive eyebrows lowered in a flash, the violet eyes beneath narrowing in sudden anger. With a rapid, liquid movement, Duo slid to his feet and snatched the mug of tea from Wu Fei's hand and flicked it to the other side of the kitchen; while the porcelain cup merely rolled a few feet and did not shatter, a line of amber tea splattered across the tile floor.

"You think you've got problems, huh?" Duo snarled, his voice low, even, yet nonetheless menacing. "Well, you'd better get over yourself quick, because we've all got problems. The way I see it,_ you_ are making problems of your own design. _You_ are the one needlessly torturing yourself with visions of some supposedly 'honorable' death when really all you're getting is _fucked._ And the more you keep playing _his _game, the more supposedly _'damaged'_ you're going to become. There are plenty of people out there who wouldn't care what you've been through already, as long as you managed to make the past the _past."_

Wu Fei stared up at Duo in disbelief, jaw tightening angrily at the boy's audacity. Yet as he opened his mouth to return scathing commentary, the American quickly cut him off with a sharp laugh.

"I mean, Jesus, Wu Fei,_ I_ wouldn't care about what that asshole has done to you, if only you'd let me in."

At Duo's revelation, the Chinese pilot could bring himself to do nothing more than blink and mumble a numb, "Maxwell?"

"The name is Duo, Wu Fei," the American youth remarked easily, a slightly sarcastic edge to his otherwise even voice. _"Du-o._ Three letters, two syllables, all of which are phonetically in every Asian language I know. It isn't that hard to say." The boy's braid swayed behind him as he shook his head and pushed away from the table. "Forget it. It probably doesn't even matter in the long run, anyway."

Duo's hand was on the locking mechanism, fingering the combination to the panel of the exit, when Wu Fei shot to his feet. He hissed in a quick breath as mild vertigo clouded his vision momentarily, but when the haze of white disappeared, he darted to the door and slammed his hand atop the American's -- halting any further data input. Wu Fei stood level with the other boy, his onyx eyes meeting brilliantly startled violet. 

"You meant it," the Chinese pilot stated quietly, his hand never leaving the top of the other boy's.

Duo laughed facetiously and gave a light roll of his eyes. "Since when have you known me_ not _to mean anything I say?"

"Then why do you --"

"Care?" the American broke in swiftly. "Worry? Wait up for you each and every night under the pretense of coffee? What do _you _think, huh?" But Duo didn't allow Wu Fei the opportunity to respond, as he smoothly added, "I just don't want to see you throw your life away on some loser when I could be treating you so much better. I'm _jealous,_ numb-nut."

Listening to the other boy speak, Wu Fei slid the tips of his fingers down the back of Duo's hand and laced their fingers together. A soft intake of breath was audible as Duo settled his eyes upon the intertwined fingers, then to the obsidian eyes seeking his own. 

"What do I have to do, Duo?" Wu Fei whispered, the other boy's name sliding from his lips in a soft inflection.

"Well," returned Duo as he gave the Chinese pilot's fingertips a squeeze, "you can't see him anymore. Never. Not under those circumstances."

"He still owes me --"

"A _life, _Wu Fei. A chance at life. He's not a cat and you're _far _from a mouse. Don't let him fuck with you -- in more than one meaning of the word -- before he _attempts_ to kill you."

For the first time that evening, Wu Fei permitted himself the opportunity to smile, very lightly, lest he break Heero's stitches. It hurt to do so, but he knew it would hurt more if he didn't. And as the grin faded from his lips, he murmured to the American, "I will not go to him."

Tentatively, Duo returned the smile and let his thumb trail tenderly across the back of Wu Fei's hand. "Good. I didn't want to have to physically smack any sense into you."

"I wouldn't want that either," remarked the Chinese youth dryly. "You'd never get a hit past me."

"Is that a hint of arrogance I'm hearing from you, 'Fei?" Duo teasingly asked.

"Of course it is," Wu Fei whispered. Tentative at first, he settled his fingers upon the bottom of Duo's chin, drawing the boy closer, until their lips met in an awkward yet gentle kiss.

After several moments, Duo drew back, his nose wrinkling as he gave the other boy a sour face. "Wu Fei?"

"Hn?" he returned, eyes gently opening as the American broke the kiss.

"You _stink._ Take a bath!" exclaimed Duo, grinning wildly.

Smirking crookedly, so as to favor his stitched cheek, Wu Fei remarked, "You don't smell very pleasant yourself." He swiped a finger across Duo's jawline and extended the grease-covered tip for the American to see.

"It's your fault I haven't been able to clean up," Duo groused as he laced his arms across his chest. "First you had to go and bleed on me, then you had to be sewn back together, then you needed some mental kicking across the compound. I mean, seriously, when will I ever get the chance to shower again?"

A glint of uncharacteristic mischievousness lighting in Wu Fei's eyes, he brought Duo's hand briefly to his lips and murmured, "Why not now?"

"Is that an invitation to join you, 'Fei?" Duo's brows shot up, cheeks flaming into color at the prospect. 

Strained,Wu Fei merely chuckled softly, brushing past the American after allowing the kitchen door to slide open. He glanced over his shoulder to give a sidelong glance to Duo, a half-smirk painted on his lips. "Take it how you will. I, for one, am going to shower."

"Don't you even _think_ of using all the hot water!" Duo's voice resounded down the hallway after the retreating Chinese boy, and Wu Fei could hear the flutter of footsteps as the American ran to catch up.

And, Wu Fei laughed aloud despite the pain in his cheek, feeling for the first time in ages truly freed. 


End file.
